


Brienne Tarth and the Quest for the Lost Swords

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s/1940s, Archaeology, F/M, Inspired by Indiana Jones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “Forget any ideas you’ve got about lost cities, exotic travel and digging up the past,” Brienne said. “We do not follow maps to buried treasure, and X never, ever marks the spot.”**[Indiana Jones!AU. In which Brienne is a mild-mannered professor by day, and a secret adventurer by preference.]
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 85
Kudos: 180
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	Brienne Tarth and the Quest for the Lost Swords

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/gifts).



> The prompt was: “An Indiana Jones-type AU where Brienne is the professor-by-day-secret-adventurer-by-other-days.”
> 
> This fic is based on "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade". Quite a number of lines and scenes have been taken directly from the movie, and given a Westerosi twist.
> 
> Dear sdwolfpup, I hope you enjoy!

**CHAPTER ONE**

******

**Now**

“All I have to do is squeeze,” Brienne growled, looking into Jaime’s treacherous green eyes. Her hand was tight around his throat, her blood beating in her veins – she could still smell the smoke from the burnings, hear the screams of the Mad King’s latest victims.

“And all I have to do,” Jaime raised his chin, “is shout.”

They were in the middle of the Red Keep. There were Targaryen guardsmen in black and red uniforms everywhere.

And Jaime – scholarly, mild-mannered Jaime _Lannister_ – was a Kingsguard to the Mad King.

**

**Then**

“The study of archaeology,” Brienne said, “involves the careful sifting of fact from fiction. Seventy percent of all archaeology is done in the library. Research. Reading.”

She saw some of her students’ eyes glaze over.

“Forget any ideas you’ve got about lost cities, exotic travel and digging up the past,” she continued. “We do not follow maps to buried treasure, and X never, ever marks the spot.”

Her drab grey suit was uncomfortable, and her lecture on proper procedure and methodology was mind-numbingly tedious.

It was a relief when it came to an end.

She escaped to her office, a cluttered space filled with odds and ends and curiosities. But just as she stripped off her tie, sinking into her chair with a sigh of relief, there was a knock on her door.

She looked up to see – an ugly tweed jacket. An unruly tumble of golden curls. Black-rimmed glasses. Bright green eyes with the familiar, unmistakable gleam of absent-minded brilliance – the mark of a true academic, lost in his own world and utterly impractical.

“Dr Tarth,” he said. “My name is Dr Jaime Hill, of the Lannisport Natural History Museum.”

**

**Now**

“You’re a _liar,_ ” Brienne hissed. “Do you even have a doctorate?”

He looked offended. “Of course. I wouldn’t lie about that.” 

“Only everything else.”

Only his bright smile and his love of ancient legends. Only his frank admiration of Brienne’s strength and intelligence. Only a long, lazy afternoon between the sheets, as the light slanted through the windows and warmed them as they lay curled together.

His golden curls were slicked back, and he was no longer wearing glasses. Stripped of his mild-mannered disguise, his jawline was razor-sharp, and his wide-eyed gaze was narrowed and focused; she saw him for his true self: a predator, sharp and sleek and ruthless.

**

**Then**

“Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail have been lost for centuries,” Brienne said. “There are few records of them after the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth were exiled by Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Contemporary sources do exist.” Dr Hill’s too-handsome face was filled with enthusiasm, his green eyes shining and his strong hands gesturing to emphasise his point. “You’ve seen the entry in the Iron Bank’s ledgers of a withdrawal from the Lannister account. You’ve read Magister Illyrio’s journal detailing their arrival in Pentos. Tyrion Lannister’s memoirs tell of his receiving news from Volantis.” 

“Yes, but after that they vanish into myth and legend,” Brienne said. “Supposedly they recounted their tale to a Red Priestess, but I’ve never seen the complete original manuscript, only poorly manufactured fakes.”

“Ah,” Dr Hill said, excitedly. “But I have.” He scrabbled around in his briefcase, muttering under his breath, and with a triumphant “Aha!” pulled out a large glossy photograph of an ancient scroll, covered in High Valyrian glyphs.

Brienne pulled on her glasses and peered down at the photograph. The ink was faded and difficult to decipher, but she could make it out clearly enough.

“Two markers were left behind to reveal the location of the swords,” she read. “And I suppose you have a photograph of the markers as well?”

She looked ironically at his briefcase.

He grinned. More muttering and fumbling produced another large photograph, this time of a broken stone tablet, deeply incised with ancient script and old symbols of the Seven. “This was recovered by an ore-finding expedition near the ruins of Old Valyria.”

“Across the desert, through the mountains, to the Canyon of the Crescent Moon,” Brienne mused, trailing her finger across the glossy surface. “It’s all very vague. Where on earth do you start looking? Perhaps if the tablet were intact –”

She looked sharply at him. “You said there were two. Where is the other one?”

He pushed up his glasses, his green eyes gleaming bright with enthusiasm. “Braavos,” he said.

**

As they boarded the plane for Braavos, Dr Hill smiled at her, all boyish excitement and enthusiasm. “We’re only one step away, Dr Tarth. I can feel it.”

“In my experience,” Brienne said dryly, “that’s usually when the ground falls out from underneath your feet.”

But she smiled at him anyway.

**

**Now**

“How can you serve Aerys, knowing what a monster he is?”

Brienne glowered angrily at Jaime. He had exchanged his moth-eaten tweed jacket for a black and red military uniform, a medal bearing the crown and seven-pointed star pinned to his chest.

He met her gaze defiantly, his mouth unsmiling. “The Kingsguard serve for life,” he said. “Once the vows are made, there’s no going back. I’m sworn to protect and obey the king.”

“Even when he burns anyone who crosses him alive?”

He looked away and refused to answer.

Finally Brienne sighed and changed the subject. “What does he want with Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail?”

Jaime’s mouth curved bitterly. “He’s obsessed with the occult and the supernatural. He believes that if he gathers enough magical artefacts, he can somehow bring back the ancient glory days of House Targaryen.”

“What, you mean –”

“Yes,” Jaime said. “He wants to bring back the dragons.”

**

**Then**

“You’re a madwoman,” Dr Hill – Jaime – breathed, after they had found the second marker in the crypts beneath the House of Black and White. “Your methods are – ” he struggled for words.

Brienne only laughed. “You like the way I do things.”

When she had brought the heavy iron barrier-stand down on the ancient marble floor, her muscles flexing, and broken into the underground crypt, his expression had been –

“Are you always so cavalier?” Jaime asked. “The first time I saw you in that drab grey suit, droning on about meticulous preservation and proper procedure –” He trailed off. “But in these clothes –” he motioned to her boots and trousers, her stained white shirt, leather jacket and her hat, set at a rakish angle. Her whip.

“What?” she asked.

He took a step closer. “I don’t like reckless women.” But his eyes were dark and intent, and his pulse was beating hard in his throat.

“And I hate handsome men.”

They stared fiercely at each other for one, two, three heartbeats.

She slid her hand into those disordered curls and kissed him.

He tore away, his eyes wide behind his black-rimmed glasses. “You –” he breathed, touching his mouth.

And then he stepped into her, leaned up and kissed her in turn.

As they tumbled down to the bed, exchanging wild kisses, Brienne heard the calling of the gondoliers as they passed through the canals below.

“Ah, Braavos,” she said, smiling.

**

The next day they returned to King’s Landing, and Brienne discovered the truth of Dr _Hill’s_ identity.

**

**CHAPTER TWO**

**

Deep in the desolate heart of the Red Waste, the great Essosi desert where so many forgotten civilisations lay buried by time, after passing through a vast mountain range, they came to an ancient canyon in the shape of a crescent moon.

Despite himself, Jaime looked awed. Beneath the black and red uniform, beneath the mantle of the Kingsguard and his loyalty to the Mad King, beat the heart of a true adventurer. 

“We must be close now,” he breathed.

Brienne, Jaime, and an escort of Targaryen guardsmen had flown from King’s Landing to Qarth, and then set out on horseback – Brienne had an irrational hatred of camels – into the desert.

She hated to admit it, but despite being a treacherous liar, Jaime made a good travelling companion. He was street-smart, quick on the uptake and infinitely capable; when Dothraki bandits had ambushed them, she discovered that the Kingsguard lived up to their reputation: he was _very_ good in a fight.

She missed absent-minded, unworldly Dr Hill. But he had been no more than an illusion, and Jaime’s own self far eclipsed his mild-mannered shadow.

For long hours they rode in awed silence through the narrow-walled canyon, the only sounds the echoing of their horses’ hooves and the sighing of the wind.

Finally they came to an ancient rose-stone temple.

“This must be it,” Brienne said. She dismounted, looping the reins over her horse’s head, and strode up the steps to examine the carved stone doors. Jaime followed, his strong hands brushing reverently against the ancient stone.

One door was carved with the rearing lion of House Lannister, and the other the sunbursts and crescent moons of Tarth. 

“He was an ancestor of mine,” Jaime mused. “Since I was a boy, I’ve been fascinated by him. The great oathbreaker. Why did he do it, I always wondered.”

“Perhaps his king was mad as well,” Brienne said pointedly.

Jaime flicked her a warning glance, and then looked behind him to the guards, making sure they were out of earshot.

“You speak treason,” he said flatly.

“It’s the truth, and you know it,” she retorted.

He said nothing, but shouldered past her into the temple.

**

There were three great tests before they could enter the burial chamber.

The first and second Brienne navigated with ease. The third – a test of faith – required all her courage to step out into the unknown.

When her foot came down on solid stone rather than thin air, she let out a shocked hiss of relief. Behind her, Jaime laughed.

“The Path of Faith is an optical illusion,” he said. “How fitting.”

Slowly, they crossed the thin stone bridge into the last resting place of the Kingslayer and the Maid of Tarth.

It was a vaulted chamber hewn out of rough stone, illuminated by ever-burning candles. Two great stone sarcophagi stood side by side, stone effigies of mediaeval knights carved into the covers; the carvings were lifelike, so lifelike that Brienne could see that the Kingslayer must have been beautiful, once, just like his descendant – and that the Maid of Tarth’s soubriquet – the Beauty – was cruelly ironic.

“Welcome, strangers,” said a deep, resonant voice.

Brienne turned, half-expecting – what? The ancient Kingslayer, or her own ancestress the Maid of Tarth, centuries old and withered? A ghostly apparition?

It was a Red Priestess, ageless and unearthly beautiful, her robes, hair and eyes the colour of blood. 

“Who are you?” Jaime demanded, his voice shaking only a little.

The priestess’ eyes widened as she looked on Brienne and Jaime, and then she sighed, as if she finally had confirmation of something she’d long sought.

“It is as I thought,” she intoned. “I knew you would come again. Long have I awaited your return.” She eyed their clothes. “Though you are dressed strangely, for knights.”

Brienne waved that last aside. “We have come in search of Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail,” she announced.

“They are here.” The Red Priestess turned, gesturing to show them the far wall of the chamber, upon which were mounted dozens upon dozens of different blades of all shapes and sizes.

“There are so many,” Jaime said. “Which ones are they?”

“You must choose,” the Red Priestess said simply.

Brienne and Jaime drew closer to the wall, examined the swords shimmering in the candle-light. There were curved Dothraki arakhs and swords of even stranger make from the furthest reaches of Essos. There were the slim, deadly blades of water-dancers and swords so huge they looked as though they were made for giants. There was a broadsword, the blade pale as the dawn, that made Jaime draw in his breath; there was a sword with an ivory pommel carved in the shape of a bear, or perhaps a wolf. 

There were blades of bronze and ivory and glass, of Valyrian steel, of dark iron. Some were so old that they had crumbled away, leaving only a ghost-stain of rust behind.

There were two crossed blades, sheathed in black leather bound with burnished copper and gold, their hilts glinting gold and inlaid with rubies, the pommels fashioned in the shape of snarling lions.

Jaime reached up.

“No!” Brienne grabbed his wrist.

He turned to her, his eyes wide. “You’ve read the descriptions. You know how Ned Stark’s sword was fashioned into two Lannister blades.”

“Those swords have never been used,” Brienne said. “The Kingslayer and the Maid fought through the Wars of the Mad Queens and all through the Long Night. Their swords saw constant use, in defence of the realm and of each other.” She looked up, saw a pair of swords sheathed in old, scarred leather, their hilts battered and scratched, with gaping holes where jewels might once have been inlaid. “Those are the swords of knights who have fought and bled,” she decided.

When she reached up to grasp them, the Red Priestess’ lips curled in a serene smile. “You have chosen well, my child,” she said. “But beware: the swords must not be taken beyond the great seal. They are too powerful now to exist in the world of Men.”

She raised her hand in farewell, and began to fade.

“Wait!” Jaime called. “Why did the Kingslayer break his oaths? Do you know?”

The Red Priestess turned her mad eyes on him. “You know why, Jaime Lannister,” she said. “In your heart, you know.”

And before their eyes, she faded away into nothingness, leaving them alone in the chamber, with only their ancestors and their ancestors’ swords.

**

When they returned to the temple proper where the Targaryen guardsmen awaited them, Jaime squared his shoulders and turned to her, his mouth set in grim determination.

Brienne knew what was coming.

“No, Jaime,” she said. “You don’t have to do this.”

Her hands were filled with the ancient swords. Before she could even think about laying them down, he jerked his head at the guards, and they reacted as one – pointing their guns at her.

“I’m sorry Brienne,” Jaime said. “But there is no other way.” He took the swords for himself. “I am sworn to obey the king.”

“The king is mad!” She tried to reason with him. “He wants to bring back the dragons so he can make the whole world bow to him. And if they won’t bow, he’ll laugh as they burn. You know it’s true, Jaime. You’ve seen the burnings.”

He strode over to her, stood too-close before her, and stared at her with desperation in his bright green eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen the burnings from up close, day after day until I learned to keep my eyes open and see nothing. He won’t stop. Nothing will stop him.”

“But you can,” she whispered, so softly only he could hear her.

He turned away, taking the swords with him – his feet straying onto the great seal inlaid on the floor.

“Wait!” she cried. “Stop!” But he did not hear her, or would not; he kept walking, until the floor buckled beneath him and great cracks appeared in the seal. The guardsmen shouted in surprise, dropping their guns and flailing this way and that as they fought to keep their balance; Brienne launched herself at Jaime and tried to grab the swords.

They fought and wrestled as the ground tore apart to reveal a great bottomless abyss, as the walls of the temple began to crumble and the guardsmen fell screaming into nothingness. Jaime cursed her, and she punched him, trying to wrestle the swords away –

They both swore as Oathkeeper went skittering over the edge of the abyss.

Jaime launched himself after it, only for an unexpected heave of the earth to throw him off balance; he grabbed the crumbling edge with one hand, reaching behind him to a jutting ledge where Oathkeeper lay half-unsheathed, the black-and-red Valyrian steel blade glinting like a beacon.

“Jaime!” Brienne knelt over the edge, reaching down towards him. “Take my hand!”

“I can reach it,” he panted, trying to reach behind him once more, fingers grasping at the sword. “I can almost get it.”

“Jaime,” she called, her voice shaking, “Jaime, please.” He looked up at her, his green eyes wild. “Let it go. Come back with me –”

But he looked behind him one last time, reached out, further and further, his fingers brushing the sheath – and then the earth buckled and convulsed once more, he lost his grip on the edge, and he fell down, down, down into the abyss, taking Oathkeeper with him.

“No!” she cried, reaching down too late to catch him, her fingers grasping only air.

**

She fled through the collapsing temple, dodging boulders and showers of dust, the ground buckling and convulsing beneath her. At one point she was knocked off her feet, and she scrambled on her hands and knees, her fingers grasping something vaguely sword-shaped – Widow’s Wail, she recognised dimly – until she could regain her footing.

With the sound of crashing and rumbling behind her, she focused on a distant patch of hazy light and headed towards it, concerned only with survival.

When she stumbled out into the clear air, coughing and weeping and carrying only one of the twin swords, she was alone save for the horses, patiently waiting.

Save for the distant rumblings of the temple falling in on itself, deep beneath the ground, the world was silent and still.

**

**EPILOGUE**

******

The world went on.

She made the long, slow journey out of the desert by herself, weeks and months of hard travel and danger, and when she returned to Westeros it was to find the Seven Kingdoms in a state of upheaval.

“What happened?” she asked the paper-boy, as she gave him a coin and took a newspaper from him.

“Don’t you know?” he asked. “Where have you been all these months? Under a rock?”

She had to laugh. “Something like that.”

“The Mad King is dead!” he announced, his eyes gleaming. “One of his own Kingsguard shoved a _sword_ through his back.”

**

Finally she returned, as she always did, to the timeless sandstone walls and green courtyards of the university, to the echoing lecture halls and the smell of chalk dust and ancient books.

She hung up her leather jacket, her hat and her whip and donned her drab grey suit and tie, her civilian disguise. She slung Widow’s Wail by its sword-belt from the coat-rack in her office – just another idle curiosity. And once more she became mild-mannered Dr Tarth, droning on about caution and methodology and the value of careful record-keeping.

Two months after her return to teaching, she finished her last class for the week and headed to the Dean’s study for a faculty meeting, which was mainly an excuse for the various professors to drink sherry and complain about their students. Still, the warmth of the fire was welcome.

As her middle-aged colleagues drank and spoke in their colourless voices, scholarly argument the only cut and thrust they knew, Brienne stared absently out the window.

The world seemed colourless and washed out. The cultivated serenity of the university seemed far, far away from the brilliant skies and burning sands of the desert, or the loud cries of the Braavosi hawkers and the brackish smells of the canals, or even the fire-washed terrors of the Red Keep.

Life was bloodless, the passion and danger and grandeur of adventure vanished, and Jaime was –

Jaime was –

Standing right behind her. She could see his reflection in the window.

She turned, slowly, to see Dr Jaime Hill, dressed in an ugly tweed jacket and black-rimmed glasses, his golden curls shaggy and uncut. His right arm ended abruptly at the wrist, his sleeve pinned up to conceal –

“What happened to your hand?” she gasped.

He smiled, perfectly mild-mannered, but she could see the sharp glint in his eyes, almost hidden by his glasses. “I lost it,” he answered, “trying to reach for something I could not hold.”

“Ah, Dr Tarth,” the Dean said, making his way over to them. “Have you met the newest member of our faculty? May I present Dr Jaime Hill, of the Lannisport Natural History Museum? Dr Hill, this is Dr Brienne Tarth. I must warn you, she has very strong notions about proper procedure.”

With a fruity chuckle, the Dean left them alone to stare at each other in silence.

“You killed the king,” she said.

He nodded. “As the Red Priestess said: deep down, I knew why the Kingslayer broke his oaths.”

“He was a monster. It had to be done.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier,” he said. “I’ve been dismissed from the Kingsguard. The new king would appreciate it if I never showed my face in King’s Landing again.”

“And so with all the world before you, you came here,” she said, her blood beating swiftly in her veins, her mouth curling in a smile. “I’m afraid life as a staid professor of archaeology offers little in the way of adventure.”

“Oh, I don’t know that.” He smiled at her, his true, warm smile, lop-sided and a little ironic. “I think a life spent with you would be an endless adventure.”

**

And so it was.

THE END


End file.
